


Better Watch Out

by BlushingNewb



Series: Discworld Detective Stories [1]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Gen, Hogswatch, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:31:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingNewb/pseuds/BlushingNewb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Sherlock/Discworld Fusion!</p><p>It's Hogswatch Eve on the Discworld, and a young Sherlock Holmes has it in mind to wait up and catch the Hogfather. The visitor he meets is not who he expected...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Watch Out

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Hogswatch, all! This is a one-shot holiday story set in the Discworld/Sherlock fusion universe that I'm building. If you're new to the Discworld and Terry Pratchett (or Pterry) I strongly urge you to jump right in with his Hogfather - it's a great entry point to the series.
> 
> Special thanks to the lovely beanabaybee, who kindly betaed for me. 
> 
> As always, comments and concrit are entirely welcome - thank you for reading!

It was Hogswatch Eve on the Discworld, and right-thinking little boys and girls were snuggled all in their beds. Parents, reveling in the wake of a pork-filled evening, were snuggled with liberal amounts of sherry in hopes of warding off trichinosis.*

Sherlock Holmes, had he been asked, would not describe himself as a right-thinking little boy. He would, however, be no end of pleased to attach the “thinking” designation to himself. The lad, just over four years in age, was currently crouched underneath the drawing table in his parents’ formal sitting room. He had staged his stakeout spot earlier in the day, strategically hiking up the under cloth but letting the lacey overlay hang free. It gave him an unobstructed view of the side table adjacent to the fireplace, upon which was placed a glass of sherry and a pork pie.

Left out for the Hogfather, his parents had firmly told him. Twice.

It simply wasn’t logical. And even though Sherlock had never even seen the ocean, it made far more sense to him that there was an island that rose and sank every one hundred years in response to geothermal forces than it did for there to actually be a Hogfather.*

Sherlock had also read that at sea there were weaker ships that were taken advantage of by marauding rascals, who then sold the plunder to become both richer and freer. Freedom honestly sounded like it had quite a lot to offer. With the sigh that only a small boy could utter, Sherlock shifted from under the table, thinking sourly of his pushy older brother, Mycroft, and the discussion they had had earlier in the evening.

“Everyone knows there’s a Hogfather, Sherlock. Where do you suppose the presents come from?”

“Mum and Dad?”

“Sher-lockkkk!” Mycroft whinged, “You’re not supposed to know that yet!”

“But you did! You’ve prolly known forever!”

“So what?! That’s not the point! It’s all supposed to be part of Hogswatch, just like the games and music and cakes,” he said, licking his lips.

Sherlock grinned up at his plump brother.

“I like the cakes, too.”

“Well, then, shut your trap! Besides, you may know who brings the presents but I’ll bet you can’t figure out who eats the pork pie. It’s really him!”

At this, Mycroft waggled his eyebrows and his younger brother frowned.

“It’s not. I’ll prove it.”

“You’re going to prove your way right out of extra presents. He won’t come at all if you’re awake, you know.”

Mycroft was treating him more like a child than usual; normally, he was much better at being honest with Sherlock in spite of his tender age. Sherlock, it was true, hated being pandered to by anyone. It was one of the major disadvantages of being small and messy. Fingers got sticky and black far too easily and then everyone shooed you away so you wouldn’t touch things. They thought that just because you looked like a tiny scarecrow dipped in treacle you couldn’t _understand_.

“Don’t care if he comes or not!” Sherlock petulantly muttered to himself, determined at last to solve the mystery of who was lying to him the most this Hogswatch.

* * *

But this Hogswatch, in all the many years of Hogswatches, was exceptional. It wasn’t colder, or brighter, or even sweeter than the Hogswatches of years past. No - the unique thing about this Hogswatch was that the Hogfather was _dead_.

* * *

It was around half past two in the morning when young Sherlock became aware of a rustling noise beside his left ear. He had fallen asleep face forward with his rump in the air. When he opened his eyes to look for the sound and spotted it, he started in surprise and had to look a second time.

A tiny skeletal rat was lifting the lace tablecloth and strolling across the floor toward the fireplace on its hind legs. In spite of all that he knew (or _because_ of all he knew) Sherlock at once discarded the idea that rats (fleshily endowed or not) did not totter about the room carrying a small scythe and wearing black robes. This one clearly was, bold as brass. Even as Sherlock watched, it climbed up the table runner to hover over the pork pie.

Beyond the embodiment of rodent death and beside the fireplace were two suspicious figures engaged in a dispute.

“ ‘s not natural, him wanting that lot. He’s only a wee slip of a lad, after all. Oughtn’t you to look again?”

“THAT WOULD BE MOST IRREGULAR. IT GETS CONFUSED IF YOU OPEN IT MORE THAN ONCE.”

“Still, all’s I’m saying is that would be one more boy who didn’t believe in the morning if yer wrong.”

“IF YOU INSIST.”

As Sherlock peered through the gaps in the lace he saw the tall _skinny_ figure in red dig around in the rich velvet drawstring bag held out by the other man.

“AH, HMM.”

“Wot! That’s no better! He’s a bit of a weirdo, isn’t he?”

“ALBERT, ENOUGH. HE IS AWAKE.”

At this, Sherlock realized that further subterfuge was pointless. He pulled the cloth aside and rolled out from under the table to stand proudly in his sitting room. Sherlock held out a finger, pointed accusingly, and exclaimed,

“I may be weird but you are _not_ the Hogfather!”

The problem was that Sherlock couldn’t clearly identify who _was_ in his sitting room. The other man was ordinary; certainly old and grizzled, a chronic smoker, and, at some point in his past, perhaps a wizard. But the figure in the red suit – Sherlock’s eyes shifted back and forth, trying to fit different images onto the same spot. Finally, Sherlock closed his eyes and broke the images in two. One of them was the Hogfather, as he appeared in countless illustrations and shop windows.

But the other…

“I remember you,” Sherlock said. “You were there last spring, when I had that scarlet fever.”

If the not-Hogfather had been capable of sighing at this point, he would have. Witches, wizards, some children and the…differently gifted seemed to have a knack for truly seeing him. While he was certain that this one was still a child (the footy pajamas gave it away), Death couldn’t tell at the moment what else the boy would _become_.

“YES.”

Sherlock scrunched up his face in disapproval. It looked like he was about to burst into tears but he would have had a tantrum if anyone had ever suggested such a thing.

“But why are you…bringing Hogswatch presents?”

“CAN YOU SIMPLY ACCEPT THAT IT IS A JOB FOR THE NIGHT?”

The scowl tightened and was accompanied by a foot stamp.

“No!”

Death thought through his next words carefully, and then, cheating more than a bit, snapped his fingers and retreated to his domain for a quick bit of research. Standing in his library, he gave a pleased hum as he perused the pages of the boy’s book. Satisfied, he blinked back in space and time to Sherlock’s sitting room. To Albert’s surprise, he took a seat on a plush armchair and held out an arm to the young lad, beckoning. Somewhat hesitantly, the little boy walked over to him.

“THERE HAS BEEN A MURDER.”

With utmost haste, Sherlock climbed onto Death’s bony, red-clad lap and settled in.

“THE SUSPECTS HAVE BEEN IDENTIFIED AND ARE STILL AT LARGE. MY GRANDDAUGHTER, SUSAN, WILL BRING THEM TO JUSTICE TONIGHT.”

Sharp, clear eyes looked up into Death’s hollow eye sockets, which glowed an unnatural blue.

“And the Hogfather? What about him?”

Death considered. The boy on his lap would become one of the most brilliant and extraordinary men he would ever meet, and Death met _everyone_. But this was him still as a child, and however unusual he was, Death still could not help but temper the truth with gentleness.

“HE WILL GET BETTER. BUT TO HELP HIM, YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE. AND YOU HAVE TO ACCEPT THESE PRESENTS FROM HIM AS PART OF THE DEAL.”

“If I believe…am I helping with the case? Am I helping to stop the murderer?”

This time Death’s grin was real rather than a mere aspect of his appearance. It was, in fact, a smile filled with a grim delight uncommon to those occupying the immortal realms. After many years on the job, certain human characteristics had rubbed off on Death, such as a desire to punish wrongdoers.* To Sherlock he replied,

“MOST CERTAINLY.”

Shifting around under the weight of several packages, Pixie Albert groused, “Best have him take a look at these, then.”

Gathered in Albert’s arms were an eclectic assortment of Hogswatch gifts. There was an elaborate collection of small glass sample jars and lids. A first edition copy of the illustrated _Poisonous Plants of the Sto Plains_. A magnifying glass, small enough to fit into a child’s palm. A book of intermediate violin etudes from the masters of the Ankh-Morpork Opera House. Finally, there was a wide-brimmed hat with a purple feather and an elastic eyepatch wrapped around it. Sherlock’s eyes widened at the sight of it all.

As Albert balanced under the weight of the presents, Sherlock caught sight of one more item, tucked into Albert’s right armpit.

“That can’t be for me! That’s all full of ointments and bandages, I bet! It’s for those new doctor-people!”*

He was aiming a chubby finger at a small, distinguished-looking black leather satchel. Albert grimaced back at him.

“What’s the difference, anyway? It’s all the same to you, scalpels and dead things, I’m sure.”

“Not gonna be a doctor,” Sherlock insisted.

“HMM, NO HE IS NOT, ALBERT. I TOLD YOU THE BAG DOES GET CONFUSED…ALTHOUGH IN THIS INSTANCE IT IS NOT TOO FAR OFF. INTERESTING, THE POWER OF THE HOGFATHER,” Death said, musing and reflecting on _all_ the stories he had read in the Book of Sherlock Holmes. He looked at the head of the lad on his lap speculatively, but Sherlock’s attention was now focused on the Death of Rats, who was scampering down a table leg.

“PUT IT BACK IN THE BAG, ALBERT. IT WILL MAKE ANOTHER LITTLE BOY VERY HAPPY INDEED.”

Again, Sherlock swiveled his head up to stare at Death, but was unable to read a single thought on his face, Death not actually having a face, as it were. Stretching out one arm from behind Sherlock, he said,

“MR. HOLMES, IT IS TIME FOR US TO MOVE ON. IF YOU GO BACK TO YOUR HIDING PLACE, YOU WILL GAIN THE KNOWLEDGE YOU SEEK - IF YOU WATCH OUT.”

For half a second, Death’s left eye socket went black before flaring back into glowing blue again. In response, Sherlock’s face lit up with an appealing smile. He was already missing a front tooth, gone since that time he had affixed a rope to the ceiling and swung across the deck in defense of his vessel. He hoisted himself off Death’s lap after taking a lingering look at his gifts.

“WE WILL, OF COURSE, BE MEETING AGAIN.”

Unalarmed, Sherlock replied,

“Yes.” Young as he was, he knew it was inevitable. He had observed nature in all its glory (the wasps invading the beehives in the garden had been most upsetting) and had noticed already that if there was one certainty in life, it was Death.

“IT HAS BEEN A PLEASURE.”

With one hand bunching up the lace cloth over the table, Sherlock gave a shy smile and a nod.

“ ‘nk you.”

“YOU ARE WELCOME. COME, ALBERT.”

Pixie Albert shuffled awkwardly over to the fireplace, and with an ungainly hop he defied physics and leapt onto the roof. Death turned to Sherlock for a final time.

“NOW BE GOOD. THIS IS PART OF THE ARRANGMENT. AND…HO..HO..HO!”

Death followed Albert onto the roof and Sherlock was alone in the sitting room once more.

* * *

He didn’t have long to wait. First, he heard shuffling long strides, less graceful than his father’s. Then, slippered feet came into view and paused beside the side table. Finally, there came the moist sound of chewing and it was all Sherlock could do to muffle the sound of his giggles.

“I know you’re under there, Sherlock. That’s a terrible hiding place, anyone would have seen you,” said Mycroft around a mouthful of pork pie. “In spite of your naughtiness, though, it seems the Hogfather came after all.”

Sherlock just managed to snigger out, “Yup!”

Mycroft ignored his immature brother and continued to speculate over the pie.

“Dad’s right – it’s not half bad, this, even though it’s been out for a while.”

Sherlock broke into peals of laughter and his brother stared over at his table as if it sheltered a madman. It took the little boy quite a few minutes to calm down, for earlier, he had watched the Death of Rats lift his robes over the pork pie. And though the Death of Rats didn’t really exist in the corporeal sense, the mere thought of his bossy elder brother eating pie with rat piddle* on it (however metaphorical) would bring a smile to Sherlock’s lips on every Hogswatch Eve for the rest of his life.

* * *

*see _Hogfather_

*see _Jingo_

*most especially Auditors

*see _Night Watch_

 _*_ because, to quote Pterry Pratchett “when you are the personification of the death of small rodents you have to behave in certain ways…[but] when you are a small skeleton in a black robe there are also some things you technically cannot do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock is the property of the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat. Sherlock Holmes is public domain. My thanks to Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> Discworld and associated works are entirely the property of Sir Terry Pratchett - Sir Terry has my utmost gratitude.


End file.
